


Sartorialities

by JaneTurenne



Category: Gallifrey (Big Finish Audio)
Genre: Bechdel Test Pass, F/F, Genderswap, Rule 63
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-10-30
Updated: 2012-10-30
Packaged: 2017-11-17 10:00:55
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,486
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/550364
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JaneTurenne/pseuds/JaneTurenne
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Always-female!Brax/always-female!Narvin fic, inspired by genderswapped Brax/Narvin art by <a href="marrowskies.tumblr.com">marrowskies</a>: Brax has certain opinions about what Narvin should(n't) be wearing.  Narvin disagrees.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Sartorialities

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [female!Brax/female!Narvin art and ficlets](https://archiveofourown.org/external_works/13205) by marrowskies and janeturenne. 



At first, Brax attributes the paucity of bare skin in this relationship to the circumstances of their rendezvous. No matter how securely locked, briefing rooms are not settings in which nudity is entirely advisable, and therefore there is nothing immediately noteworthy about Brax’s first tryst with Narvin taking place almost completely clad on both sides. On the next three occasions when Brax manages to slip her way under Narvin’s defenses (and robes), they are in one or other of their offices, where similar reservations might be said to apply. It isn’t until the fifth time, then, the carefully planned seduction in her sitting room, that Brax gives the question any serious thought.

Not that she _objects_ to the results of that evening. Brax’s own clothes are stripped away and discarded quickly enough (as the sadly permanent new wrinkles in her favorite silk blouse can attest), and when Narvin slides down the sofa out of range of Brax’s efforts to undress her, her obvious motives hardly merit Brax’s protest. But the fact remains that, after Narvin has established that the cleverness of her tongue reaches beyond the realm of banter and that her passion for efficiency extends to simultaneously slipping a hand beneath her skirts for a bit of multitasking, she makes her escape without granting Brax more than the occasional glimpse of ankle. And by the time Brax’s breathing has returned to normal, she has finally begun to consider the fuller implications, and to conclude that conducting five sexual encounters without ever seeing Narvin’s navel—or her shoulder blades—or more than half a glimpse of a single breast during one enthusiastic bout of groping behind her desk—falls into the realms of the definitely unusual.

Unlike Narvin, Ingrid Braxiatel has never considered herself a scientist. That does not mean, however, that she is inclined to accept hypotheses without going to the trouble of testing them. It takes six days to engineer a scenario that will result in a private meeting with Narvin on one of the uppermost storeys of the Presidential Palace, in a formal reception room with a bay of enormous windows. Once Brax manages that, though, the rest is easy. Arrive five microspans late—hardly a challenge. Narvin will be drawn to the view as reliably as a flutterwing to a flame; Gallifrey attracts Narvin in a way Brax never will, and the Coordinator won’t pass up the chance to make eyes at the planet below. Disable the door chime in advance, sneak up from behind while Narvin is distracted by the Citadel, wrap arms around Narvin’s waist and press lips to her neck before she has even looked back—Brax could do this in her sleep. Then it’s only a matter of sliding hands up Narvin’s body to the zip of her robes, while Brax’s arms hold her half-pinned, cradled and captured. If the combination of ostentatiously solicitous subterfuge and that pornographic panorama through the windows doesn’t create sufficient sense of mood to compel Narvin to relent, it will be proof enough to Brax’s mind that some deeper force is at work.

Everything, naturally, goes precisely as Brax planned it. For a moment as Brax slowly pulls down her zip, Narvin only exhales, pressing back against Brax’s chest. But then her eyes fly open and she jerks forward abruptly.

“Romana’s office is just down the hall,” Narvin says, voice stiff, as she elbows out of Brax’s arms.

“Are you suggesting we ask her to join us?” Brax asks. “I doubt she’d agree, but by all means do feel free to try.”

Narvin scowls and yanks her zip back up, re-covering the few inches of collar Brax had managed to reveal. Her first priority. Interesting.

“I leave striking out with the Lady President to you,” says Narvin.

“Sometimes I think you only let me touch you for that very reason.” Brax leans far too far into Narvin’s personal space. “You do so enjoy disagreeing with her.”

“You might just broker our first compromise,” says Narvin, taking a deliberate step away. “I may be forced to agree with her about you after all.”

“Oh, come now,” Brax coos, stepping into Narvin’s space again and sliding her arms around Narvin’s waist. “You are a woman of principle. When it suits you, at any rate. Surely you won’t tarnish your sterling record of opposing Romana just for the sake of spiting me.”

“Our Madam President may not allow you into her bed, but she does like you, for Rassilon only knows what reason.” Narvin wraps her fingers around Brax’s arms, though whether her intent is to hold on or to pull Brax away is unclear. Brax suspects Narvin doesn’t know herself, yet. “Loathing you is perfectly compatible with my sterling record.”

“Strictly speaking, you’ve never allowed me into your bed either.” Brax dips her head to blow a steady stream of breath into Narvin’s ear, the way Brax knows she likes. “Don’t you think it’s past time we changed that?” Brax murmurs, and licks along the edge of Narvin’s earlobe.

Narvin shivers, hisses. Brax can’t see the way Narvin’s eyes move—barely-closed, too-fast flickering, like the eyelids of a dreamer in REM—but she knows without looking.

“The lack of beds doesn’t seem to have slowed you down in the slightest,” Narvin mumbles.

Brax lifts one hand back to Narvin’s zip as she plants another kiss at the juncture of earlobe, neck and jaw. Attention to that particularly sensitive spot should leave Narvin heedless and pliable, putty in Brax’s hands. But even as she gasps, Narvin lifts her own hands to bat Brax’s away.

Brax abandons Narvin’s neck, takes a step back, stops touching Narvin entirely. Narvin blinks once, and Brax spares a moment to enjoy the warm rush of satisfaction in her belly at the knowledge that Narvin is startled and confused—that Brax has, for this instant, the definitive upper hand.

“You don’t want me to undress you,” Brax says, with the ripe pride of _knowing_.

Narvin raises an eyebrow. “Your powers of observation never fail to dazzle. Next you’ll be telling me the sky is orange.”

“Don’t play stupid, dearest,” Brax drawls. Narvin turns faintly green. Brax had suspected that endearments would be a useful tool to add to her arsenal, but it’s good to have solid confirmation. “You don’t want me to undress you _at all_. You’re clearly not uncomfortable with _my_ nudity, but you’ve never let me so much as peel off a stocking where you are concerned. Is there something you’re not telling me? Hideous scars? Missing toes? Tattoos professing endless love to a parade of forgotten paramours? If you suppose me so shallow as to mind about any of that, I shall have to be _terribly_ wounded.”

Narvin is obviously uncomfortable, struggling to keep the color from her cheeks as she scowls. “This from a woman who spends half of her time in alien clothes because she doesn’t consider the robes of her office sufficiently stylish,” Narvin grumbles. “No, I can’t imagine how I’d _ever_ consider you shallow.”

“We were talking about taking clothes off, not putting them on.” Brax looks Narvin up and down, an intentionally palpable glance, tactile as any caress. “And if you stop being so insulting, I might just pick you up a little something the next time I’m in Milan. You’re not exactly the _perfect_ canvas, but there’s potential. With my eye, I might make something practically presentable of you.”

“Oh, I’d _hate_ to think of you putting yourself to that kind of trouble.” Narvin is already turning away. The anger is primarily a bluff; Brax can still see the nervousness beneath. “Unlike some, I am proud of the robes I’ve worked to earn, and I intend to deserve them. Now stop wasting my time with...”

Brax catches Narvin from behind again, prevents her from fleeing with a pair of arms around her middle. In the past Brax hasn’t pushed; when Narvin wants to run, Brax lets her. It is a part of this act they perform for each other, a front of mutual lack of commitment—if either Time Lady should ever admit that she _cares_ , the advantage granted to the other would be so incalculable as to spoil the game for good. But usually when Brax pulls back, it is to lick her own wounds after a defeat, to regroup when a stratagem she hoped would affect Narvin yields no tangible result. Whereas in this case Narvin is off-balance, and letting her get away when she has been weakened goes against every predator’s instinct in Brax’s bones. Just to complete the metaphor, Brax bends her head and nips at Narvin’s neck.

Narvin shivers, once, but moves to pull Brax’s hands away. “Is it a question of trust?” Brax murmurs, humming against Narvin’s skin.

Narvin freezes, her hands resting on Braxiatel’s. “Are you asking whether I trust you?” she asks. “Because I would think that would be fairly...”

“No.” Brax licks up Narvin’s neck, long laps interspersed with light, quick swipes of her tongue, treacherously unpredictable. Narvin twitches, ungainly but somehow appealing, her breath coming in a series of huffs. “I am asking whether your lack of trust for me is the reason you insist upon remaining clothed, even while you permit far more considerable liberties.” Brax slides her hands—still covered by Narvin’s—over Narvin’s front. She caresses one breast, casually, though taking care to brush her thumb over one fabric-covered nipple. “Or is it something more than that?” Brax slides her hand, and Narvin’s with it, down over Narvin’s stomach, and guides her fingers carefully along the join between pelvis and thigh. “You can tell me,” Brax murmurs, in her most compelling ‘trust me’ tone.

“I hate it when you use that voice,” Narvin says, unsteadily.

Brax’s hand continues inexorably, no coy hesitation; the safest strategy with Narvin is to strike fast and hard, make her so wet so quickly that she is left too tongue-tied to argue. Argument may be one of Narvin’s fortes, but seduction is one of Brax’s. “I can tell,” Brax purrs, and bites down on Narvin’s earlobe just as her hand cups Narvin’s mound, pressing firmly thorough layers of robes and underthings.

Narvin gasps, voicelessly but with a sharp rush of air. Her hips buck roughly, once, pressing her back against Brax, and Brax seizes the opportunity to pull Narvin even closer, thrusting her hips lasciviously against Narvin’s arse. She grinds the heel of her hand between Narvin’s legs—not too hard, just right—and swells with a feeling that is equal parts triumph and arousal at the very-nearly-inaudible sound that escapes Narvin’s throat. “Shall I keep talking?” Brax says, her mouth so near to Narvin’s ear that her tongue brushes against it. “Seeing that my voice inspires such obvious... repulsion?”

“Anything but that.” Narvin’s hand moves backwards to grasp Brax’s thigh—Narvin’s first genuine _advance_ of the afternoon, and therefore a definite victory for Braxiatel. “I would have no reason for allowing you to kiss me were it not for the fact that it shuts you _up_ for once.”

Brax exhales in amusement, making certain that the sensitive skin of Narvin’s neck feels the effect of her breath. “As opposed to all the other little intimacies you permit for the much simpler reason that you loathe me slightly less than you do everyone else in the universe.”

“Don’t flatter yourself.” Narvin hisses as Brax’s mouth moves to her nape, licking and sucking with singleminded determination. “I loathe you just as much. You’re simply more persistent than the rest of the universe.”

“And why should I need to flatter myself when you pay me such lovely compliments?” Brax turns Narvin’s jaw with her free hand, and gives Narvin something that is not so much a kiss as an excuse to slide a tongue into her mouth. Narvin bites Brax’s lower lip in response, but not _quite_ hard enough to be intended as discouragement.

This is far from the easiest angle for kissing, but with their height differential, enhanced still further by Brax’s heels, it is more than manageable. And from behind Narvin, it is easier for Brax to unobtrusively slide her hand back up to Narvin’s zip.

The reaction is instantaneous, sudden as a shot. Narvin doesn’t just step back—she shoves Brax bodily away, retreating several steps. “Would you _stop_!”

All sound flees the room. Brax intentionally allows the silence to stretch, pulling it out like spun sugar as she keeps her eyes fixed on Narvin’s flushed face. Narvin holds her own in their staring contest, but neither of them doubts that she will be the first to break. She is too stubborn and too well controlled to permit herself to stare at her own boots, but her eyes divert themselves to Brax’s shoulder as she begins to scowl.

“It makes you _that_ uncomfortable,” Brax says, an observation rather than a question, her tone precisely calculated to teeter atop the tightrope that separates ‘gentle’ from ‘condescending’.

“What a nice little added incentive for you,” Narvin says, turning accusing eyes back up to Brax’s. “What would be the fun of me if you couldn’t make me uncomfortable?”

Now that _is_ interesting. “Of course,” Brax agrees, in a tone that they both know is artificially light. “When that discomfort consists in scandalizing you on purpose, there are few more amusing exercises to be had in this... _entertainment-challenged_ mausoleum we call Gallifreyan politics. But the amusement fades considerably when ‘scandalized’ is less the proper word than ‘traumatized.’” In her thousand years of living, Ingrid Braxiatel has never yet encountered an obstacle sufficient to merit an actual _pout_ , but on rare occasions she has been known to adopt an expression that hints one might be lurking in readiness. “It hardly does any service to my self-esteem to be looked at like such a monster, you know.”

“Oh, I could never forgive myself for harming your _self-esteem_.” Narvin sounds nearly like herself again. Brax has just gone out of her way to give Narvin time to regroup, and Narvin clearly knows it. Her shoulders, while still braced for impact, are no longer hovering above her earlobes. Some progress.

“Then by way of healing my sorely abused ego, you’ll simply have to take me back to your rooms,” says Brax, and strolls over to take Narvin’s arm.

Narvin doesn’t flinch away, which is a positive sign. But she turns a suspicious gaze on Braxiatel, growing more and more uneasy the longer her search fails to unearth any visible trap. “Why?” she asks, finally.

Brax raises one exquisitely eloquent eyebrow, and wishes the alliteration were as obvious on her face as it is in her head. Narvin rolls her eyes. “Why _my_ rooms?” she amends.

“Will you feel safer there?” Brax asks.

A quick flash of fear crosses Narvin’s face before facing a swift and ruthless execution in favor of a mask of artificial calm. “Possibly,” she admits.

“Well then.” Brax slips away and heads for the door. It was foolish to imagine that Narvin would fall in step with her, but she knows that Narvin will never permit herself to be left behind. True to form, Narvin’s booted footsteps are soon hurrying to match Brax’s longer stride.

“You can’t know where you’re going,” Narvin objects.

“Do you really think that I don’t know where you sleep? My dear Coordinator, what charming naivety.”

“Dammit, Braxiatel, I don’t...” Narvin swallows. “Fine,” she snaps. It’s the angriest romantic surrender Brax has ever heard, and that is the best thing about it. “But come the long way. I don’t want to be seen walking together on the way.”

“How delightfully flattering.”

“I’ll be waiting when you get there.”

“Did you just agree with one of my plans?” Brax asks. “Wonders will never cease.”

“Don’t push your luck, Braxiatel.”

“Darling,” says Brax, sliding her fingers along Narvin’s arm as she steps away, “when have you ever known me to do anything else?”

*

When the door to Narvin’s rooms opens, Braxiatel is yanked in so quickly that she fears for the stitches of her jacket. If her impeccable wardrobe is going to suffer in the course of this evening she would prefer it to be in a better cause than the service of Narvin’s paranoia, but if sacrifices must be made, then so be it.

“Were you followed?” Narvin asks, as she closes the door and activates half-a-dozen locks, mechanical and electronic both.

“I really haven’t the foggiest idea; that sort of thing is your department,” says Braxiatel, and heads straight for the bed. It isn’t as brash a move as might otherwise be the case. The only other furniture in this room is a small, uncomfortable-looking sofa and an even more uncomfortable-looking chair, plus a plain dark armoire and a few tidy bookshelves along the walls. ‘Utilitarian’ doesn’t even begin to cover this space; a never-used hotel suite would project more individuality, and a great deal more luxury as well.

This tiny apartment isn’t the one that properly belongs to the Coordinator of the CIA. Narvin refused the rooms to which that rank entitles her, as she once did the ones that ought to have accompanied her promotion to Assistant Coordinator, and before that to Under-Coordinator, and before that to Agent. This bog-standard box is identical to those in which every snot-nosed green-as-Earth-grass CIA trainee ekes out an existence.

Coming from a woman who is as deeply attached to convention and Doing Things in the Proper Way as Narvin, Brax considers this deliberate choice of living space to be an anomaly worth considering. She doesn’t think it is the expression of an egalitarian streak on Narvin’s part. More likely the decision to keep these rooms has to do with a bed that faces directly on the only exterior door. Sleep is a state of vulnerability, and Narvin would want to minimize that risk as far as possible, even if it meant sacrificing every imaginable creature comfort for the privilege.

Brax smiles slightly. No wonder she finds herself so eager to strip away Narvin’s defenses. Even _Romana_ doesn’t guard herself so fiercely as this. What more delightful challenge could Gallifrey possibly present than the cynical CIA Coordinator who is all sharp edges and slippery planes, elusive to grasp and impossible to hold? The Lady President’s coruscating genius, ferocious strength of will and almost-painful beauty are indubitable in their appeal, but Narvin’s deceptive facade of the plain and unobtrusive presents a contradictory allure, a constructed and purposeful air of _noli me tangere_ that only the boldest would dare to disobey. And a lack of boldness has never been among Brax’s faults.

“Are you coming to join me?” Brax asks, as she slips off her slingbacks and sprawls herself over Narvin’s coverlet—black, unadorned, and smooth as a sheet of glass—in a would-be casual fashion carefully calculated to display her stockinged calves to fullest advantage.

“I’m considering the possibility.”

“You are far too much work.”

Narvin gestures towards the door, presenting it with both hands like a waiter with a tray. “Do feel free.”

Brax considers actually accepting, if only to test whether Narvin will try to stop her. Instead she smirks, props herself up on an elbow, and pushes back. “How long has it been since anyone but you saw the inside of these walls?”

“That’s my own business.” Narvin’s tone is cool, but the barb is sufficient to draw her across the room. She sits on the edge of the bed, her posture just casual enough to avoid ‘ramrod-straight’ as a fitting descriptor. Brax slips a little more upright beside Narvin, sliding her hand down her own thigh in the process to rest just below her knee. “And stop trying to make me look at your legs.”

Brax leans sideways to bite Narvin’s earlobe. “My legs are works of art,” she says, and licks into Narvin’s ear. “And for someone who likes being ordered around so much, you can be extraordinarily bossy.”

“I don’t like being ordered around.”

“Lies.” Brax’s hand finds its way to Narvin’s thigh, sliding and squeezing. She gives Narvin's neck one lazy kiss. “When our dear Madam President has just been barking at you in her office, you come out so hot I hardly have to even _try_. One of these days I’ll send her flowers and a pretty note to thank her for warming you up for me.”

Narvin’s jaw clenches, and Brax swears she can hear Narvin’s eyes rolling back in her head as her eyelids snap shut. “Gods and Pythia, I _hate_ you,” she hisses, and right on schedule she’s turning, pushing Brax onto her back, rolling on top of her and kissing her so hard that their teeth clack.

Brax allows Narvin the upper hand for precisely six nanospans. And then she hooks a leg over Narvin’s hip to roll them both onto their sides. One of her hands slides firmly along Narvin’s side as they kiss, her palm tugging at the edge of Narvin’s breast, dipping into the depression of her waist, gripping greedily at her hip. With the other hand she caresses the back of Narvin’s neck, the barest brush of fingertips. The contrast has the intended effect; Narvin rolls her hips in a hungry squirm, tugs at Brax’s hair, kisses her that much harder.

“Narvin,” says Brax, between kisses, “take my clothes off.”

Narvin stops, blinks. “No, I did not misspeak,” says Brax. “I said mine, and I meant mine.”

“This is some kind of scheme to get me out of my robes.”

“Yes,” Brax agrees, with an amiable smile and an equally amiable squeeze to Narvin’s backside. “But as you know that, and I know that, and you seem to enjoy seeing _me_ naked in any case, I really don’t see why you shouldn’t go along with it.”

“You like to think that I enjoy seeing you naked because _you_ enjoy seeing you naked.”

“Well, who wouldn’t?”

“Anyone who doesn’t find blind arrogance attractive.”

“Which would be why you’re going to undress me.”

“You are repugnant.”

“And what, my dear Coordinator, does that say about you?”

“I shudder to think.”

“I like it when you shudder.” Brax leans in and kisses the hollow of Narvin’s throat. Narvin doesn’t suppress her shiver as entirely as she would like. Brax grins, and nips at Narvin’s skin as Narvin tugs Brax’s suit jacket from her shoulders.

“There, now,” says Brax, with a patronizing smirk. “Was that so bad?”

Narvin fists her hand in the silk scarf knotted around Brax’s neck, and manhandles her into a kiss. “ _That_ was better,” says Narvin, her smirk ripe with satisfaction.

“By all means, do continue,” says Brax, as Narvin unknots the scarf and sets it aside. “Unlike some Time Ladies we know, I am diplomatic enough to accept a happy compromise when one happens along.”

“You’re referring to your precious President, of course,” Narvin says, beginning to work on the buttons of Brax’s blouse.

“Always _my_ President. Out of curiosity, which of us are you jealous of—or is it both?” Brax leans back on the covers, exaggeratedly casual, to give Narvin better access. “You are more than welcome to pretend I’m her, if it suits you. I would say whether I do the same with you, but that would be telling.”

Narvin scowls and yanks the tails of Brax’s shirt out of her skirt with more force than is strictly necessary. Unhooking Brax’s bra is the work of a moment—she wore the fetching dove grey front-clasp number today, which she thinks was uncommonly thoughtful of her—and then Narvin has one of Brax’s nipples between her teeth.

“That expression of intense of concentration that you develop when you are attempting to savage me is really rather endearing,” Brax remarks, arching her spine as Narvin brings her tongue to bear. Narvin’s hand cups Brax’s other breast and her thumb moves in time with her tongue, teasing both nipples simultaneously in a way that Brax finds deliciously erotic. She permits herself a sigh of pleasure, because Narvin has earned that much acknowledgment, and slides her fingers into Narvin’s hair. She scrapes her nails over Narvin’s scalp, and is rewarded by the hint of a growl. And then Narvin moves her mouth from one breast to the other, and her fingers feel even better on the nipple left damp by her previous attentions, her mouth even better on the nipple already sensitized by her touch. Brax hums with satisfaction as her fingertips rub semi-conscious circles into Narvin’s scalp.

“You know,” she mentions, “this would feel even better if more of your skin were involved.” Narvin rewards the remark with another bite, this one lower on Brax’s breast and hard enough to bruise. Brax hisses, but doesn’t object—she has always liked it rough, and Narvin’s willingness to oblige is one of her primary advantages as a lover. Narvin moves her mouth to kiss between Brax’s breasts, and then slides down to Brax’s stomach. The uppermost edge of Brax’s pelvis peeks above the waistline of her skirt; Narvin scrapes her teeth along that ridge of bone, then licks her way along the same path. The way Brax’s hips buck upwards is involuntary, but she can’t say that she minds.

Whatever the success rate of her Agency—and the Cardinal in Brax certainly wishes that figure were higher—Narvin is a competent woman. She proves it at moments like this, unobtrusively navigating a finicky side-zip skirt even as she covers Brax’s stomach with a light dusting of kisses. Brax lifts her hips to let Narvin pull the skirt away, and smiles at the blush that steals over Narvin’s cheekbones when she sees what waits beneath.

“Always the legs,” says Narvin, her eyes tracing the straps of Brax’s suspenders along her thighs and following the accompanying stockings down towards her toes.

“You shouldn’t mock, darling. Connoisseurs have been known to describe my legs as going all the way down to the floor.”

“ _Everyone’s_ legs go all the way down to the floor.”

“A figure of speech.”

“An idiotic figure of speech.”

“Petty jealousy doesn’t suit you. I, for one, have never thought less of you for being so... shall we say ‘vertically-challenged.’”

“Neither have I,” says Narvin, all sharp edges. “I _chose_ this body. Smallness is an advantage in my profession. Not all of us feel the need to spend every waking moment as the center of attention. I prefer to go unnoticed whenever possible.”

“And yet here I am,” says Braxiatel. “Noticing you.”

“Yes,” says Narvin. It is meant to sound sour, Brax knows, but there is an edge of genuine discomfort in the word. And something finally clicks into place in Brax’s brain.

“That’s the reason, isn’t it?” she says, propping herself up to get a better look at Narvin’s face. “ _That_ is why you refuse to take your clothes off in front of me. Because you have devoted your life to watching others, and you cannot even begin to cope with the thought of anyone watching _you_. It isn’t about shame, or modesty, or even entirely about mistrust. It’s about attention. You equate being noticed with being _dead_.”

Brax expects Narvin to deny it, or at very least to prevaricate. “Partly,” she says instead. Her eyes are narrowed and her lips pursed, the expression she assumes when she is not only indulging her natural suspicion, but also thinking her hardest.

“And the other part?” Brax asks.

Narvin hesitates, choosing her words carefully. “I... distrust pleasure,” she says. “Giving it is one thing—that’s a favor that _you_ owe _me_. But receiving...”

Brax shakes her head. “On a rational level I’m certain that does play a part, but there is a subconscious aversion at work here as well. An association of the act of being seen not only with uneasiness or inconvenience, but actual danger.” Brax looks Narvin up and down, considering. “Yes,” she says. “I’ve decided. We are going to ignore me, for tonight—difficult, I know, but the only way for me to do this will be to focus entirely upon you. Lie down and close your eyes.”

“Why?” asks Narvin, frowning.

Brax rolls her eyes and pounces. Before Narvin can react, Brax has her pinned, back to the mattress, Brax’s hands trapping Narvin’s arms and body pressed full-length atop her. “Now close your eyes,” Brax says. She smirks, laughter in her eyes, and adds, “If you think you’re hard enough.”

It’s Narvin’s turn to grimace with exasperation. She stares hard at Brax for a long moment, juts up her chin, and then, to Brax’s mild surprise and considerable satisfaction, closes her eyes.

“There now,” says Brax. “You are off the clock.”

Narvin’s eyes fly open again. Brax gives her a stern look and presses a hand over her eyes, Narvin’s eyelashes tickling her palm. “No,” says Brax, firmly. “You are not a spy at the moment, Coordinator, much less a spymistress. You are relieved of duty. You will keep your eyes closed until I tell you to open them.”

“You don’t actually have the authority to give me orders,” Narvin says, but when Brax takes her hand away, Narvin’s eyes are closed.

“You absurd little pedant,” Brax says, with just enough fondness in her tone to stop the words from biting. “Of _course_ I do. You may not be required to follow them, but we both know that you will.”

“I can’t imagine what gives you that idea.”

“You never did have much imagination. Which is another advantage of this little scheme. If you cannot see me, you will only be able to speculate about what is coming.” Brax blows a long stream of breath down the length of Narvin’s neck. “No idea what I’m going to do to you next.”

Narvin shudders, her hands twisting into the coverlet as her eyes remain resolutely shut. “You are going to _feel_ something tonight, Narvinektrolona,” Brax whispers, “even if I have to tie you down to make it happen.” Brax smirks. “Then again, you would probably enjoy that.”

“Not particularly,” says Narvin, but Brax is close enough to watch the goosebumps spring to life down Narvin’s arms.

“You are such a liar,” says Brax, with a degree of affection that ought to embarrass her and, oddly enough, doesn’t. She rests the index and middle fingers of her right hand in the hollow of Narvin’s throat, and then drags those fingers down Narvin’s front—along her collarbone, between her breasts, over her stomach, dipping into her navel.

“It takes one to know one.” Narvin swallows as Brax’s hand swerves sharply in its progress, diverting along the swell of her stomach to curl five possessive fingers around Narvin’s hip.

“What a thoroughly reasoned and, if I may say, erudite retort.” Brax kisses Narvin’s throat, a dangerous kiss with plenty of tongue and scraping teeth.

“Go to hell, Braxiatel,” says Narvin, but her chin juts up, baring more of the vulnerable whiteness of her throat.

“Your conversational skill really does get better and better.” Brax bites into the soft flesh just under the hinge of Narvin’s jaw, and the tiniest hint of a sob escapes Narvin’s mouth before she can suppress it. Brax licks and sucks and soothes the red mark left by her own teeth, until it disappears from Narvin’s skin with unsatisfying speed. “Narvin,” says Brax, “I am going to unzip your robes now.”

Narvin swallows, but says nothing. “I would appreciate some sort of expression of consent,” Brax adds. She and Narvin both seem to expect her to continue, perhaps with a sarcastic list of acceptable methods of indicating permission, but Braxiatel knows the value of silence when the situation happens to be important enough to merit it.

It requires a tediously long wait, but Brax sits perfectly still, and is rewarded at last by one sharp, curt nod. She knows better than to press for more. Instead she kisses Narvin once, on the lips, more gently than she ever has.

Another Brax in the back of her mind takes the opportunity for a measure of self mockery— _If you permit yourself to go soft over_ Narvin _, Ingrid, I will give up on you entirely_ —but the smirk she gives while Narvin cannot see is not entirely unkind. Some part of Brax expects Narvin to put up one last show of resistance as Brax slowly but surely draws the zip down her robes, but Narvin stays quite still until a moment when Brax’s hand is somewhere near her navel, and Brax begins to laugh.

“What?” Narvin growls.

“Only you,” Brax gasps, tugging the zip all the way to Narvin’s hem and sliding the halves of her robes apart. “Only you could possibly make such a fuss about robes when you have an _entire second set of clothing_ underneath.”

Narvin scowls without opening her eyes. “The robes are the part that matters,” she grumbles.

“The fact that you actually believe that is both incredibly idiotic and oddly sweet.”

Beneath her robes, Narvin is wearing a simple black undershirt of some soft and attractively clingy fabric, practical black trousers festooned with extra pockets, and a hip holster containing the staser Brax herself chose as a gift. Brax could present a thousand-word report on the suitability of the ensemble without so much as a moment’s time to think. The clothes are sturdy, easy to move in, dark enough to disappear in a shadow, inconspicuous and, perhaps most importantly, basic enough to blend into a crowd on any of a thousand humanoid-occupied worlds. Unlike those bright and utterly noticeable white robes, this is fitting garb for a spy. The metaphor of those two contrasting costumes is an obvious one: beneath the ill-fitting prestige and diplomatic status of the officious little Coordinator lies another Narvin, secret and deadly and at least seventeen orders of magnitude more attractive.

“I am a genius,” says Brax, with a smug grin.

“What leads you to that deeply flawed conclusion?”

“Who else would ever have the insight to look at you inside that jumped-up bedsheet you cling to so proudly and realize that the woman underneath is _sexy_?”

Narvin doesn’t blush; her entire head turns red. “That’s it. I’m leaving,” she says, but Brax has her pinned back down before she can make any progress.

“Might I point out that these are your rooms,” says Brax. “And if you are going to be so alarmed by compliments, then I will add that you are still entirely insufferable. You are simply insufferable with one or two _very_ pleasing curves.”

Narvin opens her mouth, and shuts it, and settles back onto the mattress with her eyes still closed, her face set in an expression of mingled confusion and fury. “‘Thank you’ isn’t a dirty word, you know,” Brax adds.

“I will find a way to kill you slowly,” says Narvin, “and you will know it’s happening, and have no way of stopping it, and you will _know it was me_.”

While she has no serious concerns about Narvin actually carrying out any such threat, Brax does think this a prudent moment to unbuckle Narvin’s holster and set it and her staser aside. That done, Brax slides back up Narvin’s body to straddle her hips. “I am going,” she says, slipping a hand underneath Narvin’s shirt to squeeze one of her breasts, “to make you feel so good,” she continues, undulating her hips against Narvin’s, “that you forget your own name.”

“Some exotic, incurable poison,” Narvin goes on. “That new bodyguard you found for the President. The savage. She seems like the type who would know about that kind of thing. I could ask her.”

“I am going to make you _weep_ with pleasure.” Brax uses her free hand to lift one of Narvin’s from the bed. She brings it up to her lips and wraps her mouth around Narvin’s index finger, licking and sucking with lascivious enthusiasm.

“It will be painful,” Narvin says, interrupted slightly as she gasps and hisses with the feeling of Brax’s mouth on her fingers, Brax’s fingers toying with her breast. “The poison. Terribly... terribly painful. You’re going to... to be the ruin of me. You understand that, don’t you? You are a bad idea, you are the _worst_ idea, and your political ideas are insane and dangerous, and your... your hair is stupid, and...”

Brax pulls Narvin’s hand from her mouth and brings both of her own hands to the hem of Narvin’s shirt. “Darling,” she says, tugging the shirt up over Narvin’s head,“do kindly please shut up.”

Narvin tries to respond, but her face is full of fabric, and by the time she has struggled out of her shirt Brax has already reached around behind her and unhooked her bra. She takes advantage of Narvin’s already upraised arms to slide her bra over and off, and before Narvin has her breath back Brax is already tracing the circumference of one of her breasts, the gentle pressure of her finger calculated to leave Narvin’s skin in a bright, beautiful agony of stimulation.

“You are a walking crime against art,” says Brax. “ _Look_ at these. Ah, no, I didn’t mean literally—keep your eyes closed.” Narvin makes a face, but complies. “Not the _absolute_ best pair of breasts I’ve ever seen, but in terms of proportion they are really quite exquisite. And it isn’t simply a matter of keeping them hidden away from the rest of the universe, because you are perfectly entitled to do that, if you really must. The problem is not _enjoying_ having them. This is a lovely body, and you’re so afraid of it and the pleasure it can give that you can hardly even admit it’s _there_.”

“It isn’t important,” Narvin insists, her breath stuttering as Brax twists her nipple between forefinger and thumb and then pulls outward, gradually but firmly, until Narvin’s hips buck.

“Wrong as usual.” Brax lowers her head, generously laving Narvin’s nipple with the flat of her tongue, and then suckling until the hint of a whimper escapes from Narvin’s throat.

“Just... flesh,” Narvin insists, rather breathlessly. “Inconsequential.”

“And yet every experience of your life, no matter how profound or how trivial, is filtered through that flesh,” Brax points out. “Neurons firing impulses in your calcium cage of a skull, brain cells swimming in the sea of chemicals that _are_ your every opinion and thought. Physical eyes to witness even the most breathtaking of beauties; physical ears to hear even the most ethereal of melodies. No connection to the smoky intoxication of spices or the dark, carnal satisfaction of cooked meat than through that wet red slab of muscle in your mouth... although the highest and most important use of _that_ is only peripherally related to the sense of taste.”

Brax licks at Narvin’s lips until her mouth opens. As they exchange aggressive, open-mouthed kisses that are more like battles of tongue, Brax slips one of her legs between both of Narvin’s, straddling her thigh. She grinds her hips forward, and the friction of their frottage is delicious, and ultimately unfulfilling, and all the more delicious for _being_ ultimately unfulfilling. Even through her trousers and pants the sensation is sufficient to make Narvin whimper into Brax’s mouth and roll sideways for a better angle, one where she can grind back eagerly even as they go on necking like they’re both half-starved. Their four hands roam greedily over naked backs, and then Brax teases the tips of her fingers just under Narvin’s waistband, making Narvin’s hips buck sharply as she tantalizes that sensitized strip of skin. To her delight, Narvin retaliates by slipping a hand into Brax’s pants and giving her arse a squeeze.

For once, they find themselves in serious danger of losing track of words altogether, and for some microspans Brax permits that state of affairs to continue. But as good as this is, she intends so much more.

“Would you care for me to demonstrate?” Brax asks, abruptly picking up the conversation as her hands find their way to the fastenings of Narvin’s trousers.

“Demonstrate?” Narvin asks, half-dazed.

“The best,” Brax interrupts herself for another kiss, “possible use,” and another, “for a tongue.”

Narvin shudders, but hesitates. “For Rassilon’s sake, Narvin,” Brax growls, “ _you_ should be the one begging _me_ in this situation, not the other way around.”

“If you think you will _ever_ hear me beg you for...”

“I am not delusional, Coordinator. All I would like is a simple ‘yes.’”

Narvin grimaces. Brax would be the first to call herself an unsympathetic woman, but even she cannot witness the agony of uncertainty on Narvin’s face without a corresponding sense of pain. “Narvin,” she says, “open your eyes and look at me.”

Narvin complies. “I realize that you have neither the inclination nor the desire to trust me or anyone,” says Brax, “but _listen to what I am asking of you_. I would like the opportunity to _give you pleasure_. Nothing else; nothing more. At such time as I do ask of you anything more, you will of course be entirely within your rights to refuse. You are entirely within your rights to refuse this as well, if you truly find the prospect unappealing. I believe, however, that if it were the act itself that repulsed you, you would already have said so. If not, I urge you to say so now. I want to use my lips and my fingers and my tongue on your cunt to make you feel very, _very_ good. Does anything about that prospect, in and of itself, strike you as other than deeply desirable in any way?”

Narvin struggles to hold back a flush at the bluntness of Brax’s phrasing. Through sheer brute stubbornness, she keeps her eyes fixed on Brax’s. “...No,” she admits, more than slightly hoarse.

“Then stop this useless second-guessing. You are committing yourself to _nothing_. For once in your ridiculously ascetic little life, _let yourself have what you want_. If I were here to murder you in your bed, I would already have had a hundred chances. If this is all part of some larger Machiavellian plot, I trust you to foil it even if you do not trust yourself. And supposing that neither of those is true—a remote possibility, I know, but just for the sake of argument—there is always the option that I want nothing more here this evening than precisely what I claim to. Now stop being an idiot and _take your damned pants off_ , for the love of all things good.”

Narvin is still for a moment, and then raises a skeptical brow. “Was that therapeutic for you?” she asks, with a kind of sarcasm which, for Narvin, very nearly equates to genuine sympathy.

“So help me, Narvin, there are any number of far less obnoxious Time Lords and Ladies with whom I could be spending my valuable...”

This time, for once, it is Narvin who goes in for the kiss. Brax keeps her eyes wide open, but permits Narvin to retain the illusion that she is distracted by lips and tongues as Narvin wriggles her way out of her lower garments. Brax refrains from passing comment until such time as Narvin’s trousers and pants have been kicked away off the edge of the bed.

“You are still wearing your socks,” she observes.

“And?” Narvin asks. “I’m also still wearing the sheath of throwing knives on my calf, but you don’t seem to consider _that_ to be worth mentioning.”

“Only because it’s more than a little delicious,” Brax observes. “I happen to like a woman who is able and willing to stab me to death _in flagrante_.”

“And your real reason for being here tonight emerges.”

“Of course,” Brax agrees, and slides down Narvin’s body. She rolls one of Narvin’s socks off and tosses it over her shoulder with a playful smirk. “Eyes closed again, I think,” she says, as she begins on the other sock.

“Is that really necessary?”

“You will do as you are told,” says Brax, in a tone of lazy, drawling command.

“Do you honestly believe I’m that easy to... oh _fuck_.”

Narvin’s eyes slide closed of their own volition. Brax grins with the pair of lips still wrapped around Narvin’s big toe. She’d had no idea that Narvin’s feet were so sensitive, but she certainly intends to take advantage of that information now she has acquired it. Narvin makes an incoherent, throaty sound as Brax kisses the underside of each one of her toes. When Brax slides her tongue between one pair of toes, and then another, Narvin actually _moans_.

The worst thing about having her mouth full, Brax thinks, is being unable to give voice to her mental stream of witticisms and retorts. She will simply have to let her actions speak louder than words. Most of the time. Except when the temptation is simply too strong to resist.

“Ironic,” says Brax, after Narvin nearly kicks her face off—involuntarily, Brax _thinks_ —following the scrape of Brax’s teeth across her arch.

Narvin makes a deliciously uncontrolled noise that contains enough of a question for Brax to take it as an inquiry into her meaning. “That the woman who occupies the position on Gallifrey requiring the single most calloused of souls...” Brax purses her lips and blows along the line of skin where her tongue has just licked, and Narvin’s whole body shakes. “...Should have such sensitive soles.”

Narvin tries to roll her eyes, but Brax has just begun biting her way up one edge of her foot, and Narvin cannot seem to summon an expression indicative of anything but ecstasy. “Stabbing,” Narvin gabbles, insensible. “Knives. You said I could. _No more puns_.”

Brax laughs, her mouth against the hollow of Narvin’s ankle. She takes Narvin’s calf in her hand and kisses her way upwards, the attention to this somewhat less erogenous area giving Narvin time to catch her breath after the assault on her feet. Brax’s mercy extends that far, but not to permitting Narvin to regain sufficient coherency to speak. Before that eventuality can come to pass Brax is licking and nibbling at the inside of Narvin’s knee, making her gasp all over again.

Brax will admit that she hadn’t expected this to be so easy, but with the benefit of retrospect it makes perfect sense. Nudging Narvin to this point has required months of careful and, if she does say so herself, peerlessly skillful pursuit on Brax’s part. She doubts whether anyone else has had so much as a glimpse of Narvin’s knees in the past century, much less actually touched her there—or anywhere else. And with her body so unused to the attention, it is only rational that Narvin should hiss and shudder as Brax kisses the insides of her thighs, nipping now and then at that soft, smooth skin, inching inexorably upwards all the time.

Brax brings her hands to the outer edges of Narvin’s thighs and clutches, letting her nails dig in just enough. She breathes in, taking a moment to indulge her sense of smell, the deep and unmistakable scent of another woman. She has always _enjoyed_ the act of oral sex, enjoyed giving it perhaps even more than receiving. Narvin wasn’t entirely right about sensuality and control—there _is_ a certain power to be had in lying back and luxuriating in someone else’s attentions, so long as one can project the proper air of entitlement—but she wasn’t entirely wrong, either. The more direct sort of empowerment that results from playing the director of someone else’s sexual experience, dictating how and when and _why_ they feel pleasure, is equally delicious, and Brax hadn’t even realized until tonight how much she wants that with Narvin, how sweet this victory is going to be.

Brax strings out the nanospans, ratcheting the tension until Narvin is left almost-imperceptibly trembling with anticipation. And then Brax sticks out her tongue as far as it will go, and uses just the tip to lick along the cleft between Narvin’s labia, opening her slightly as she goes. At the uppermost limit Brax pauses, then presses an open-mouthed kiss to Narvin’s clitoris.

Narvin shudders. Brax raises one of her arms as far as it can go towards Narvin’s shoulders, and lifts her head from between Narvin’s thighs. “Would you mind terribly just sucking on my fingers for a moment or two?” says Brax, in a tone meant to be maddeningly cool, and with a matching smirk. “Just as many of them as you suspect you will be likely to require.”

Narvin’s cheeks were already a pleasing pink, and now she flushes one or two shades darker, regarding Brax with lust-dark eyes. But she sits up slightly without any argument and takes Brax’s three middle fingers into her mouth, lavishing them with her tongue.

In the meantime, Brax lowers her head again and begins to work in earnest. She alternates between periods of thrusting into Narvin with her tongue, and longer spans when she licks steady circles around Narvin’s clit, a rhythm she occasionally varies with a moment of suction whenever she thinks it will be least predictable. The results are promising—Narvin’s skin is growing hot where it touches Brax’s, and every now and then she hums out a moan against Brax’s fingers. Before Brax can tell her to do so, Narvin slides one of her hands into Brax’s hair, her fingers curling and uncurling reflexively against Brax’s scalp, more frequently as Narvin grows more and more aroused.

When Brax feels that the time has come for a measure of escalation, she pulls her hand away from Narvin’s lips and slips two of those dampened fingers inside her. Narvin’s hips buck upwards and then grind down hard, driving Brax’s fingers into her as far as they can go. Brax debates for a moment as to how far she ought to allow Narvin to control this, but concludes that letting Narvin set the pace that works best for her will provide the most satisfactory results in the end. Brax focuses on her own tongue lapping against Narvin’s clit, and keeps her fingers mostly still to allow Narvin to thrust against them however she likes, though Brax does use her free hand to prevent Narvin’s hips from bucking upwards and spoiling Brax’s rhythm. And after a short while Brax adds a third finger to those penetrating Narvin, and then crooks them upwards, because allowing Narvin a measure of choice hardly means that Brax need refrain from adding her own little flourishes when she can.

Brax glances upwards as best she is able with her tongue still between Narvin’s legs, and just manages to catch one good glimpse. Narvin’s hand, the one not in Brax’s hair, is fisted into the coverlet, and both her face and her chest are flushed red. Her eyes, Brax is surprised to see, are open, fever-bright and staring at nothing, and her mouth is open as she struggles for air.

Brax closes her own eyes and activates another sense, one that sinks from her skin into Narvin’s. She makes no attempt to initiate full-scale contact; naked bodies are one thing, naked minds another, and Brax doesn’t want Narvin poking around in the dark alleys of her brain any more than Narvin will want Brax in hers. But that doesn’t preclude the sort of superficial, non-invasive mental touch that will be just sufficient to allow Brax to whisper into Narvin’s mind.

 _Let yourself go, Narvin,_ Brax thinks, stilling Narvin’s hips with one hand as her other begins to move, her fingers thrusting in time with the swirling of her tongue on Narvin’s clit. _Stop fighting, stop thinking, and just let yourself go._

Narvin releases her breath in a ragged sob as she lets her eyes slide shut. Her whole body is shaking now as Brax’s fingers slide in and out, deeper and harder all the time, as Brax’s mouth goes on sucking and licking the most sensitive part of her. A series of gasps and voiceless whimpers escape her as her trembling becomes almost violent. And then, at last, she tightens her fingers into Brax’s hair, and arches her hips off the mattress, her face contorting into a rictus of pure pleasure as she comes.

Brax slides her fingers from Narvin’s body and wipes them on the coverlet. She sits up and watches for a long moment; Narvin lies slumped more still and peaceful than even sleep could make her. Brax permits herself a smile and a momentary feeling of pride, and then reminds herself that there is work yet to be done. She licks her lips, and rolls Narvin onto her side, and stretches out beside her.

“Wha...” Narvin slurs, as Brax’s arm snakes over her hip and Brax’s hand finds its way back between her legs. Brax drags her middle finger along Narvin’s cunt, wetting her fingertip with any number of relevant fluids, and then presses her fingertip back against Narvin’s clit, and spins it in a small, tight circle.

“Oh,” Narvin breathes. “ _Oh_... n... ah... _yes_... Brax, _Brax_...”

Brax smirks, and kisses Narvin’s neck. “ _That_ was what I was waiting for,” she murmurs into Narvin’s ear. “I was determined to make you say my name. Again, for me, would you?”

Narvin gasps and presses her body back full-length against Brax’s. “Braxiatel,” she gasps, without so much as putting up a fight.

Second orgasms are always easier, Brax thinks. Pleasure is a plateau, and just after it has dropped off from a peak, it requires relatively little effort to raise the elevation again to a still higher plain. Before Brax even has time to grow bored of devoting her attention to such a minor motion as rubbing her finger hard against Narvin’s clit, Narvin is shouting, her head falling back against Brax’s shoulder as Brax’s fingers are drenched in warm wetness.

This time, Narvin is left absolutely insensate—not quite unconscious, but as near to it as Brax ever wishes to see her. Brax takes the opportunity to slip out of her own pants, stockings and suspenders, and then to move an eager hand down between her own legs. Administering to Narvin has left her aching, and she knows that it won’t take long to finish herself off.

Brax is already close by the time Narvin recovers enough to roll onto her side and take one of Brax’s nipples into her mouth, drawing a bright tendril of the pleasure pooling in Brax’s groin straight upwards in an extraordinarily enjoyable way. Narvin rests one of her hands over Brax’s, just in time for Brax to hit her threshold with a spectacular hot rush of pure arousal. She shudders as it courses through her, the muscles of her cunt contracting in pulses that ache through her bones in the best of all possible ways.

Dimly, Brax is aware of Narvin pulling Brax’s own arm around her and sliding the covers over them both. But most of her attention is taken up by this sense of sedate goodness, of _peace_ , and she can’t say she regrets that in the slightest.

*

“I’ve decided,” says Braxiatel, some little time later.

“Mmmm?” says Narvin, tangling her legs still more thoroughly with Brax’s as they spoon.

“I _am_ going to buy you that dress in Milan. Something airy. White eyelet and emerald-green satin ribbon, I think—you’re the right type to play the gamine, might as well have something a little bit impishly feminine. And you’ll need a little fascinator trimmed to match, with hints of blue to set off your eyes. And a ring, a big, ostentatious starburst with a sapphire center. And green leather mary-jane heels. And perhaps something naughty to go underneath it all. Something French.”

“I don’t even know what half of those words mean,” mumbles Narvin, “but I’m not wearing them.”

“Of course you won’t,” Brax agrees, “but it will do my hearts good to know that you _could_.”

“You talk more rubbish than anyone else I have ever met.”

“Why Narvin,” says Braxiatel, nuzzling into her neck, “I never knew you cared.”

“You’re not staying the night,” Narvin says, yawning.

“Of course I am.”

“No,” says Narvin, firmly.

“Afraid I’ll be seen leaving the inner sanctum?”

“Yes, actually.”

“Suppose I sneak out a span before first sunrise.”

“ _No_.”

“I find myself desperately eager to know, if I wake you up by kissing your back, whether I can’t manage to make you _purr_.”

Narvin goes still. “ _Two_ spans before first sunrise,” she concedes.

“Two spans before first sunrise, and when I buy your new clothes, you try them on once for me before locking them away nevermore to see the sun.”

“...Done.”

“And perhaps give me one little twirl.”

“Not a chance.”

“Ah, well,” says Brax, wrapping her hand around Narvin’s as she pulls her more deeply into her arms, “a girl can dream.”


End file.
